Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (15 page)

"I know one thing that may have some bearing on the uranium business," Hank said. "When I first arrived at the Spaniel Island site, I recall passing a row of what appeared to be shielded canisters, of the kind used for the transport of radioactive materials. But on my way out, they were gone."

Tom rubbed his chin—his habit while engaged in hard thought. "Which means the sub took them away, probably to Chilcote’s little nest. Something tells me the authorities had better get the good doctor into custody—and fast!"

SWIFT ENTERPRISES had never been engulfed in a flurry of activity as furious as that of the two weeks that followed the return of the
Sky Queen
, bearing the jetmarine in its hangar-hold. All plant resources were temporarily diverted to doing whatever was required to meet George Dansitt’s deadline for the completion and public demonstration of the world’s first supersonic submarine.

The
Nemo
, dry-docked in its cradle in the underground hangar, was carefully examined and refurbished after its adventures at sea. A new nose-dome was cast and installed, and cushioning sealants were injected at several points of possible stress in the frame of the craft, inasmuch as the new atomolecular engine differed in its vibrational characteristics from the original pump engine.

The entire propulsion system, stem to stern, had to be removed and rebuilt on different lines. The intake ports at the fore end of the jetmarine were far too small to accommodate the rush of water required by the Gervaise engine. A new cowling was fabricated that paralleled the seam where the dome attached to the main hull, but which extended outward eight inches further on the top and sides, and a full four feet further beneath the dome, creating an intake "scoop" that completely encircled the front of the craft.

But the various plant departments involved in the jetmarine redesign soon reported to Tom that more fundamental changes would be needed.

"We’ll have to junk the whole rudder-and-fins setup," declared Hank Sterling as he and Tom pored over the results of tests in the high-velocity hydrodynamic tunnel—the aquatic equivalent of a wind tunnel.

"It’s just like when the first supersonic jets were developed," Tom commented. "Things that work well at subsonic speeds have paradoxical effects on the other side of the sound barrier."

Tom and Hank tossed around a few ideas—approaches that would have sounded far-fetched even days before. Finally Tom began to sketch out a new concept on an electronic flatscreen, which fed his drawing directly into a design program. He traced a cigar shape, representing the streamlined jetmarine. Then he drew a thick, flatsided ring around the tail of the
Nemo
.

"You’ve lost me, skipper," said Hank, wearily rubbing his eyes. "Now you’ve got the back end of the cigar going through the hole in a doughnut. Where does that get us?"

"Maybe everywhere!" grinned the young inventor. "Imagine that this ring, or ‘torus,’ is made of overlapping curved plates attached to a strong internal framework. By using a series of very small, very lightweight electric motors—like the Fat Man suit’s ‘arm muscles’—we can shift the forward-facing ‘mouth’ of the torus side to side, or up and down."

"In other words you’re not swiveling the whole thing as a unit, but actually altering its shape."

"Exactly," Tom confirmed. "Think of it as a 360-degree rudder!"

Sterling promised to flesh out the details of Tom’s concept and then have Arv Hanson produce a small model for testing within twenty-four hours. When the model was tested in the tunnel, it showed that the fundamental problem of directing the jetmarine at transonic speeds had been overcome.

More difficult were the problems mentioned by Bud and Sandy in Jamaica—the related problems of friction and aquatic sonic booms. One afternoon, six days before the planned launch of the craft, Bud found Tom in his laboratory leaning over an oversized tub of water, its contents in frothy motion.

"Now
that’s
a healthy development!" Bud remarked. When Tom turned around quizzically, he added: "I always thought this lab could use a good jacuzzi for geniuses and their pals to relax in!"

"Dreamer!" Tom retorted. "I’m just testing out a new way to fight underwater friction."

Bud nodded, plopping down on a nearby stool. "Sort of a super-lubricant for supersonic subs."

"Not quite, flyboy!" laughed Tom. "Now listen up. There’s longitudinal friction, like when you rub your hand along the surface of a table. We deal with that by basic streamlining."

"Right."

"But there’s a much bigger problem called dynamic pressure, represented by
‘Q’
in engineering lingo. That kind of friction is actually the back-pressure developed by the fluid medium in front of the craft."

"I understand," said Bud. "The air or water in front gets piled-up on itself because it can’t get out of the way fast enough. Jets have to punch through it when they break Mach 1."

"And in the process, a shockwave is produced, which is heard as a sonic boom." Tom held up a long, flatsided rod which somewhat resembled the blade of a broadsword. "Now imagine something like this sticking out in front of the jetmarine, attached to her nose. It punches into that ‘piled-up water’ in front. As water moves along the length of the device due to the forward motion of the sub, the water is given an electromagnetic shove sideways, so that it gains some lateral momentum and is able to slip around the hull more easily."

Bud gave a grunt of self-pleased satisfaction. "I get it. You’re draining away that Q-pressure, sort of like opening a hole in the water for the jetmarine to stick her nose into."

"It’s not that dramatic, but that’s the basic idea," Tom said. "It’s really just an adaptation of the Flying Lab’s aeolivanes to traveling underwater—same basic principle. I call it the hydraulivane."

"Not bad, pal. I just hope it doesn’t get the
Nemo
mistaken for a swordfish!"

On a Monday, with three days to go, the new version of the jetmarine was rolled into the sunlight on the way to the high-pressure tank in the test complex.

"She sure is shined up bright!" exclaimed Chow Winkler admiringly.

"You’re not going to ‘brand’ anything, Chow?" teased Bud Barclay.

"Wa-al brand my pickled piglegs," snorted the cook in response, "yuh’d think that’s all I ever said!"

The pressure test was satisfactory in all respects, and at the end of the day Tom was able to shake hands with his father and assure him that they were on schedule.

"Then there’s no reason not to tell Mr. Dansitt to go ahead and fly in his two groups of investors," said Damon Swift proudly. "Incidentally, we received a pair of McIntosh and Dansitt t-shirts in the mail. Would you and Bud care to—?"

Tom’s groan cut off the rest of the sentence. "Dad—please."

"Didn’t think so," chuckled the elder Swift.

The day prior to the event, the
Sky Queen
ferried the jetmarine and her crew to the launch site Mr. Dansitt had designated, a well-equipped and well-policed wharf not far from the Seagirt Marine Terminal of Baltimore. The
Nemo
was drydocked out of sight and an elaborate security system put in place.

"Chilcote is still out there," explained Tom to his family, who were present for the following day’s send-off. "We don’t know what he or his minions have been up to lately."

"But Tom, why can’t they arrest him in Trinidad?" asked Tom’s mother.

"They would if they could, Mom," he replied. "But neither Rosello nor any of the crew of the sub has been willing to talk. In fact, that’s probably why Chilcote went to the trouble of recruiting and training poor Laotian peasants to run the sub—since they don’t speak the local languages, they wouldn’t be able to repeat anything they might happen to overhear."

"That Dansitt—I mean, Rosello—what’s his stake in all this?" Sandy asked.

"For one thing, if he had some involvement in murdering Sidney Dansitt he has every reason to prefer the waters nice and muddy."

"I can’t help being a little afraid that someone might try using that blackout machine on you and Bud, or even on the spectators," said Mrs. Swift.

"You needn’t worry, Anne," answered Tom’s father, taking her hand. "Besides the distorter device on the jetmarine, we’ve now built several more. This whole area will be well-protected, and I’m sure Chilcote is smart enough to know that."

The next day dawned overcast with a trace of fog in the air, but by midmorning the sun had burned through and the viewing stands set up on the wharf were filling with excited crowds. In one reserved area sat the Mayor of Baltimore and various other officials; in another, under a gaudy corporate banner, Dansitt’s group of investors were gathered.

George Dansitt arrived, expensively dressed and waving his cigar. If he were in mourning for the presumed loss of his son, he didn’t show it. But the crowd knew of the recent events from the news reports, and greeted him warmly.

Then the spectators from Shopton took their places. Chow, resplendent under his ten-gallon hat, was there, as were Arvid Hanson, Wesley Beale, Harlan Ames and his daughter, the Sterlings, and many others.

The crowds applauded anew as the Swift family arrived with waves and modest bows. They were joined by the Barclays, Bud’s parents, who had flown in from San Francisco, and by Bashalli Prandit, dark and radiant.

Finally Tom and Bud came out onto the wharf, dressed simply for their historic voyage undersea. The crowd rose to its feet and roared a greeting as a brass band played an inspiring march that could barely be heard through the din. The boys waved sheepishly—which stirred the crowd to a greater frenzy—and then stood at attention at the edge of the wharf while the band played the national anthem and the jetmarine was pulled into view by cables.

"She’s beautiful, Tom!" whispered Bud. "Or have I already said that?"

The refurbished jetmarine looked sleek and futuristic with her forward dome gleaming in the sun and her polished hull, painted a deep gray-green, catching spiked reflections from the scalloped surface of the bay.

With some final waves and kisses blown in several directions, Tom and Bud entered the hatchway of the
Nemo
and clanked it shut. After a check of the instruments and the air supply, Tom radioed Mr. Dansitt that he was ready and would be starting precisely at the time agreed upon—noon on the dot, by synchronized watches.

"Good luck and safe crossing Tom, Bud. And Tom?"

"Yes sir?"

"For what it might be worth—this is for Sidney."

Activating the atomolecular engines at their lowest possible setting, Tom gently eased the
Nemo
away from the wharf and out into the bay. Then, playing the slight forward thrust against the thrust-reversers, he brought the craft to a full stop and submerged.

"See any leaks, Bud?" he asked jokingly.

"Not so far," replied the dark-haired submariner, flashing an excited grin. "But I brought along my galoshes just in case."

The seconds ticked away. Then Tom gripped the throttle and said, simply:

"Time!"

THE JETMARINE responded to Tom’s touch like a trained palomino. The low, organ-like drone of the engines, barely audible, spiked upward to something more like a violin trill. The
Nemo
underwent a thrilling acceleration, arrowing out into Chesapeake Bay and immediately veering south. This was the first true undersea test of the new rudder-ring, and it worked like a charm. Tom felt that his control of the sub was total.

As planned, the trip down the bay was a subsonic one. Even so, after less than a minute Tom was able to make a startling announcement. "Bud, we’re moving faster than anything has ever moved under water—and that includes the records we set two weeks ago!"

For once, Bud Barclay was speechless.

Consulting the computerized positioning system, Tom periodically announced the geographic landmarks they were passing. Curtis Point, Point Lookout, Tangier Island—all fell before the lightning power of the hurtling super-sub.

Before Bud had time to put together a mental map of where they must be, he felt the jetmarine veering sharply to port. "What’s up, Tom?" he asked. "Why are we turning?"

Tom smiled broadly. "So we don’t crash into Virginia Beach, that’s why! We’re leaving the bay and heading east, matey, out into the wild Atlantic! If the water were clearer, we could see Cape Charles." He made a quick check of their course, then turned and said to Bud, "Ready to make history?"

Bud nodded, wide-eyed.

Tom relinquished control to the navigational computer. The boys watched as the readout screen counted down to zero. They braced themselves.

Bud recalled later that when the atomolecular engine up-throttled into its main mode, it was like being shot out of a cannon. He and Tom were jolted back into their padded safety straps by the sudden, awesome rush of forces. For a moment, before the hydraulivane attained its maximum efficiency, the tranquil sea became a roaring place. The sound of the new engine was no longer a tone so much as a hiss.

Faster, faster they sped, minute following upon minute. Suddenly the
Nemo
began to vibrate in sharp, thudding jolts.

"T-Tom!" Bud gasped. "What is it?"

Tom did not answer but clenched his muscles against the forces of acceleration, leaning toward the instrument panel suspended in front of him. He offlined the navigation computer and resumed manual control of the jetmarine, simultaneously twisting two large dials on the panel. The sub shimmied for a moment like an old car, then clicked back into smooth acceleration at a more measured pace.

"Subocean currents along the continental drop-off," Tom explained calmly. "Sort of like skidding on a wet highway."

"Yeah—except at several hundred miles per hour!" observed Bud. Suddenly the import of Tom’s remark struck the youthful pilot. "Skipper, are you saying we’re
already beyond the continental shelf?"

Tom nodded proudly. "We’re passing over the downslope now. Take a look."